Thank you, Lolapola, for the prompts that inspired this emotional mess of a story. :)
Sherlock Holmes solves the crime and John Watson saves the life.
It has always been the mantra of their relationship and work, although Sherlock has never voiced it. He has always been aware of it, of course. Just not in the way that the logic applies to himself.
The voices start about two weeks after his supposed "death."
He's spinning in circles, arms raised to his head, flying through his mind palace so fast he can barely count the rooms, Mycroft's voice egging him on, murderers lurking in dark corners-
Sherlock?
Stop.
Everything stops. His eyes fly open, he can't breathe, because John can't be-
You're Sherlock Holmes. You can solve this. Turn up your coat collar and think you bloody idiot.
His lips form the name, ache to whisper it, but he knows it cannot be real, it can't be, it can't be-
But of course he listens to it anyway.
Because it's John.
Mycroft notices, of course.
Sherlock tries not to make it too obvious, but it is difficult to get anything past his older brother.
"You're hearing voices."
"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock winds a new bandage around his arm with the skill of newfound practice. "I'm perfectly fine."
Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "Sherlock you have a broken arm."
"Details."
"I'm not going to be there to get you out of every stupid situation you find yourself in. You're supposed to be dead. The world has to stop noticing you, be more careful."
"Oh, shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock snaps. His arm is on fire and his head is pounding with John's voice asking, You okay?
Sherlock wants to reply but can't under his brother's gaze. Instead he bites his lip and throws himself into an armchair, hissing as his bad arm is jostled in the process.
"Hearing voices can be a sign of severe anxiety or a side effect of drug use," Mycroft says in a way that is supposed to be calm but is laced through with tension.
Sherlock says nothing.
"Do we need to have this conversation, Sherlock?"
"No," Sherlock whispers, closing his eyes. John's voice reprimands him.
Don't be an idiot.
"I hope we don't," Mycroft says. He grabs his coat and heads towards the door. "Be more careful, Sher," He calls over his shoulder, and Sherlock starts at the use of the childhood nickname. "We know how you really being dead would upset Mummy."
Sherlock does not reply, and in his head John sighs.
John's voice stops, when his friend is back working cases with him.
Sherlock does not say how grateful he is, how terrifying the auditory hallucinations were starting to become, how insane and terribly sentimental he felt, because John knows. John might not know all the details, but he knows.
John saves his life in so many ways he does not realize, and he never has to realize. Being there, being present, making snarking comments out loud instead of in the echoing confines of Sherlock's head, that's enough.
That's enough, and it always will be.
"Oh God, Sherlock what happened?"
Sherlock starts at the alarm in his friend's voice. He's rubbing his hair with a towel. Another is tied securely about his waist. John is in the living room. Mary has gone out with friends to do more wedding planning or something domestic and ridiculous, leaving the two of them alone.
"What? what are you talking about?" He asks, dropping the towel and narrowing his eyes. "Has someone been murdered?"
John huffs a laugh, but Sherlock can tell he's still worried. "No, your back. When did you get those scars?"
It's a very forward question, which surprises Sherlock. Usually John can tell when he shouldn't push so far, but...
"Sorry," John says, realizing quickly, "I just, those are...new, aren't they?"
"Yes," Sherlock murmurs, coming to sit down across from his friend. His back aches at the memory and he bites his lip without realizing it. "Dismantling Morierty's web was not easy...at times there were consequences."
"Consequences?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Think, John. One of the most powerful men in the world with a web of spies and liars working for him, one man trying to track them all down, it was bound to get messy."
"You were tortured," John whispers, horrified. "Oh, God, Sherlock..."
"Please don't get sentimental, John," Sherlock says quickly, and swallows hard because his voice is shaking and he needs to get a hold of himself. "It was awhile ago."
"Those are fairly new," John says, examining Sherlock now with a doctor's eye.
Sherlock waves a hand, pretending not to notice it's slight tremor.
"Sherlock when did this happen?" There is anger in John's voice now.
"Mycroft got me out...so to speak."
"So to speak?"
"Well, he might have watched them beat me bloody and then told me to go to London. In his mind, he got me out."
"I'm calling him." John stands up. His soldier face is on; drawn eyebrows, set mouth, shadowed eyes, "I need to have a word with your brother."
Sherlock almost laughs, but he is also oddly grateful. "John..."
"Shut up, Sherlock. No one tortures my friends and gets away with it."
"Mycroft didn't torture me."
John is already dialing. "Mycroft Holmes!" He shouts into the phone.
Sherlock does laugh now, leans back and laughs, because of course it is John Watson who can win in a stand off with his brother.
Sherlock's hands are burned.
At first, he doesn't notice it. He's too preoccupied with John's bloodied face and his chest barely rising and his vacant eyes-
Come on, John, Come on, wake up, wake up, WAKE UP!
But then John is awake and gasping and Mary is holding him and Sherlock's hands start to really hurt.
He clenches them into fists so no one notices and tells Mary to take John to the hospital. He will follow, of course, but he can't be so close to them. Children are screaming and people are pressing close to him and he is full of smoke and the sound of John's choking cries and his hands ache and he needs air and-
Breaking away from the crowd he strides out into the street and phones Lestrade. "John's hurt. We need an ambulance." Is all he says, and hangs up. Lestrade will come running. He always does, whenever Sherlock calls. It's something oddly reliable and slightly wonderful about him(not that Sherlock would ever say that to his face).
Taking several deep breaths, Sherlock works his way back through the crowd to John. Mary has her arm around him and is talking quietly in his ear to keep him conscious, even though Sherlock sees that John has almost fully recovered; he's had much worse.
"I phoned Lestrade," Sherlock says, more for Mary's benefit than John's, "he's coming to take John to the hospital."
"Don't be-" John starts to say, and then focuses bleary eyes on Sherlock for the first time. "Sherlock. Your hands."
Sherlock glances briefly down at his palms as his friend's words brought the pain to the forefront of his mind. He hisses through his teeth because he can feel the blisters starting and even though it's not really that bad(his mind tells him the opposite, mind palace bringing forth a list of burn victims) it still hurts. His eyes smart. "it seems I'm in need of medical attention," he says, so quietly he half hopes John doesn't hear.
John, gasping and upright, burned and alive, somehow still smiles at him. "It seems I'm your doctor then."
John has saved Sherlock so many times.
It's in small ways, the doctor doesn't notice most of them.
it's the way he accepts Sherlock's bitter moods. it's the way he let's him no if things aren't good, it's his patience on danger nights, it's his always eager laugh and his ability to see the amazing and beauty in a good case.
John saves Sherlock from the world. He saves Sherlock from himself.
Sherlock is the brain behind the famous detective and his blogger, and John is the heart. John is what keeps them in perspective, what makes Sherlock feel human and alive and like he means something.
Sherlock solves the crime and John saves the life.
But most importantly, he saves Sherlock's life every day. Sherlock has never really thanked him for it. He's not good with words, he can't put meaning behind his emotions in ways that other people can understand.
Because he doesn't have to.
John knew.
John knows.
And that's enough.